a family tree

Sep 2

FIVE MEMORIES

1. FLIGHT

I know it took place — in the sense that I can prove it as fact, in the sense that I can prove its likelihood. I know it took place, despite how blurred its image is in my mind, how faint the recall of its feeling.

I know it took place in different forms, over stretches of time — I believe till I was seven or eight — yet one occasion stands out, heightened above the others.

One occasion in a park — that’s all I can recall. Perhaps because of the color, yet the rest of the image is blurred, the rest of the memory remains fragmented. Fragmented as a part broken of a larger whole.

But I know it took place — because the memory repeated itself in me and in others, because I too commit the act, because I have seen the act take form — by him, in others, by me, for others.

The act is to be spun around, suspended in air, against gravity, without fear of being harmed, or of falling down — spun around, the body in a horizontal plane — a plane parallel to the ground, yet lifted, suspended, held only through two other horizontal points: one hand holding the other.

Four hands creating an enclosed surface. A soft landing. on a soft surface.

My body in tension, my weight suspended — I feel light as a feather, My weight is taken of, of me as he feels the heaviness on his arm.

And when it’s over, I ask, let’s go again.

And when it’s over, he is faint — spinning around himself.

I once felt light as a feather — how could I feel light as a feather once again?

2. THE WATCH

I saw it for the first time — a closed black suitcase, placed in the left corner of a closet, with other items scattered above and below.

The suitcase held mostly papers: a few birth certificates, an old house contract, some receipts — the kind of paperwork you would rely on to prove the fact of your existence, and so on.

It also held a watch case — black. A promise of inheritance. His watch, a watch he never wore.

He bought it from a friend — the friend bought it from the Gulf — a common act of a time before I was born, when a few among many would leave in search of livelihood, returning with gifts that resembled a form of success — an act that I would later follow.

That friend came back with a watch — Nothing fancy. A Seiko Sport 5 timepiece, gold-plated, resembling the design of the seventies: an oval shape with grooves along the outer rim, a dark brown dial, and a small window displaying the date and the day in the soft lines of a red Arabic calligraphy font, in my mother tongue.

Mechanical, automatic, with a reference number I could never trace to find any further details.

The story was told that he was close with that friend, “Perhaps they were neighbors; I can’t quite remember, nor did I care.” and one day the friend said, “Mohamed, give me some cash and take this.”

And so he did.

It became his — a watch he never wore.

But I did. I watched it closely as I grew older.

I never had to search for it; it never changed its place, always resting in the same corner, inside the same suitcase.

The scattered objects around it changed form, but the suitcase didn’t change its location — always in that same left corner. Resting parallel to the ground.

Yet I looked for it, in the sense that knowing it was there brought me comfort. To touch it, to hold it, to see that it was still there — unmoved, untouched.

There were a few scratches on the glass surface, a few more on the gold metal strap — ones I first ignored, then tried to polish to fix, then failed and later learned to love.

Yet it remained, for a long time, unfitting for my wrist. As I grew older, that didn’t change — from loose, to tight, to barely wearable.

I learned to love that too.

I was told by her, “When you grow old — old enough — you can have it.”

Owned by him, declared by her.

And one day, I took it out of the box. No words were said.

I simply pointed to it as I looked him in his eyes. He met my gaze — a small nod followed.

No words were needed.

3. SILK

She had long black hair — black as black could go, soft like silk.

One day, during her chemo, a few days before I was to take another flight that left home, I woke to find her making my favorite food.

She was standing.

My favorite dish takes hours to prepare — delicate green leaves, yielding in her hands, but breaking in mine.

She said, “How could you leave without having your favorite food?”

She made it despite the pain, despite the suffering.

I ate it that day and said thank you.

I have hated that dish ever since — hated its color, its taste, hated that its thin leaves break in my hands.

Hated that she suffered. Hated that I left early.

And I hate that I am fearful of home.

But what I fear most is that my sorrow is not just that she suffered, nor that I suffered — I fear that my sorrow is born from a part of me that is hateful, a part that requires hate as fuel, a part that seeks excuses — in her suffering, or in mine — to justify its own nature.

For I know others have suffered too — him as well, the force that spins.

Yet I refuse to imagine their pain, or imagine his.

On rare occasions he speaks of it — as if his lips, for a moment, broke free of his will — he mentions memories I choose not to hear.

As if I choose the sorrows most convenient to feed the hunger of that hateful part.

And her sorrow was closer than others’, as she was closer than others.

And still, on occasion, I prepare the same dish for a chosen few — for those loved enough to make it worth the effort.

THE MOON

A singular object — a marking in space — allowed sight to rest.

One bright body occupied the full domain of vision, eliminating all else from view.

Elimination became rest, and rest became surrender.

Desire and fantasy follow vision — so I, too, surrendered to a single bright object.

In the dream, a thousand bright moons rest in a radial arrangement, occupying the periphery of a circle. and brighter full moon — occupies the center. A thousand moons kneeling in quiet devotion to one more radiant than all, beneath a generous blue dome that answers prayers.

Every prayer follows the same ritual: one hand resting steady against the dome’s wall, one hand pressed over my chest holding into heart, And as I lean, the blue dome walls carry my weight, I’m light as a feather, with the moon light reflects into my sight, and I, too, kneel in quiet devotion.

My tongue is whispering — and the dome answers.

A thousand bright moons rest in quite devotion, while the brighter moon occupying the center of the dream.

An unfulfilled dream is a dream still desired.

The nature of dreams is forgetfulness — so the dream must repeat itself, its content hidden from waking state for realization of the dream content would extinguish the desire that sustains it.

And in dreams, as in wishes and fantasies, it is the maintenance of longing that becomes its own nourishment — not the fulfillment of what is dreamed.

For if fulfillment were to take place, hunger would follow, not satisfaction —

And my lips . my lips carry a miserable longing, as the dream breaks free from rigid circulations of seeking, the confining securities opting for in reality where matter is outweighing feeling— where matter outweigh my desire. where my desires pray to meet your needs.

yet as I wander freely, in a waking state my lips carry a miserable longing, shared only with my hands.

as your lips feed that longing by denying it rest, I long further.

I will architect you a heaven.

…

My lips carry a miserable longing, shared only with my hands — to know the feeling of your surface to touch, to hold. Or to pray for.

Yet you remain open only to sight. Sight alone is permitted rest.

When sight fails, you pass from forgetfulness into absence.

And in that forgetfulness, I betrayed, for I forgot that I once took the moon as a lover.

as he remains the kindest of all, as he allows my sight to find rest.

I will architect you a heaven —

There is a miserable longing shared between my hands and my lips, but not my heart or sight — for they have accepted your absence. for they have once accepted your absence.

And one pain replaces another.

They fer your absence yet. my hands ache seeking your touch, and my lips, for the taste of your lips.

As I pray to let me in, As you answer I will,

I will architect you a heaven — one where my longing finds its rest, and the moon meets its resemblance of beauty. in your being.

Your likeness in kindness in him, as he is in you.